


En l'air

by Soqquadro



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet Dancer Castiel, Ballet Dancer Dean, Castielle's family is terrible too, Except for Gabriel, F/F, Genderswap, Jealous ballerinas, John Winchester's A+ Parenting (mentions), Michael's a dick, OOC (possible), Past Abuse (mention)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6302071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soqquadro/pseuds/Soqquadro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deanna has been in the corps de ballet of Lawrence Ballet Academy just for a few months, when she admits to herself that she has a hell of a crush on the étoile of the school, Castielle Novak - in her defense, it's nearly impossible not to fall for Castielle's blue eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En l'air

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [En l'air](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/183226) by Soqquadro04. 



> Hello, and welcome to the notes of my first work in the English fandom of Supernatural!  
> It's my first time writing - or, in this particular case, translating - in English, so I'm sorry for all the mistakes you can - and probably will - spot in this work.  
> I have no relevant warnings, actually xD  
> Hope you like it, and that's all!  
> Soq

****[…]

Oh, come on girl! 

Deep in her eyes,

I think I see the future.

I realize this is my last chance. 

She took my arm,

I don't know how it happened.

We took the floor and she said, 

"Oh, don't you dare look back.

Just keep your eyes on me."

I said, "You're holding back, "

She said, "Shut up and dance with me!"

This woman is my destiny

She said, "Ooh-ooh-hoo,

Shut up and dance!"

[…]

[Shut up and dance with me – Walk the moon](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JCLY0Rlx6Q)

 

_Oh, Christ._

Fucking whisky, fucking Bobby who had sent it to her – to _celebrate_ , he said, but to celebrate _what_ , she's been away from home for _six months_ now – and fucking her too for thinking it was a good idea listen to him. She had easily ignored the fact that her alarm clock rings at 6.10 every morning and she preferred spending the night on the phone with Sammy, drinking glass after glass of cheap scotch. The remaining half bottle has been brutally thrown in the garbage.

The – predictable – consequence is the remarkable hangover of that morning. The lights are blinding like headlights, her head pulses painfully every single time she _breaths_ and she has no idea how she's going to manage centre workout when she can't focus on anything for more than fifteen seconds.  
Thank goodness, it's not their turn now – Deanna and the other twenty-nine girls from the _corps de ballet_ are at the room's sides, warming up or reviewing the choreography or even just chatting, or watching Castielle.

She raises her head – previously trapped between her knees – at the thought, stoically ignoring the sudden rush of sorrow through her neck, and lays her chin on her hand to be more comfortable.  
It's pretty hard to _not_ watch her.

The music's rapid, cheerful, she's so fast, sometimes, that Deanna hardly understands when she has her feet on the floor and there are definitely too many turns in that _pirouette_.

Anyway.

They've been organizing this show for _months_ , slaving over choreographies, plot, the head mistress going crazy with the budget because is _not_ just a show, but it has to act as a springboard for the _étoiles_ of the school: Castielle Novak, indeed, and Michael Smith, who's got money coming out of his ass and a father that no one ever saw, who's happy to finance the Academy, at least as long as his son has a possibility to join the Royal Ballet company.  
Therefore, yeah, in part is also for such reason that all the other girls are watching her – ballerinas, usually, don't bother too much with hiding envy.

Deanna, actually, feels just respect for her – she's really young, only seventeen years old against her nineteen ( _oh, Dee, always late_ ), and she's got an enviable technique and the undeniable luck of a pretty face to count on.  
She licks her lips, involuntarily, when Castielle gets along with a particularly intricate passage without a single hesitation.

Admiration and, okay, perhaps she's been a little bit melt by those eyes – they're blue and huge and so, so _real_ , and it has been years since she has saw someone _real_ in that world.  
In any case it will be over soon, _she'll make it_ be over soon, because she has no intention to laze in self-pity forever.

Hers is probably the dumbest crush in dumb crushes' history. There's no universe in which someone like Castielle – launched toward a brilliant career – would even know about the _existence_ of someone like her, an anonymous face in the _corps_ , not particularly noteworthy, went through selections by a miracle (considering her awful and irregular education), and barely able to afford all the costs.

Of course, that has not prevented her to get probably the worst crush of her life on her.

Deanna sighs heavily when music's over and madame Milton tells Castielle to step aside. She stretches her neck and narrows her eyes one more time, desperately trying to make the headache disappear with the sole strength of will. Without success, yeah.

 

That night Deanna doesn't really want to be alone.

But the alarm always rings at 6.10 AM and she's too exhausted for the whole getting-ready-and-going-out-and-searching-for-company thing – there would be Lisa, her roommate.  
She's quite sexy, dark hair and sweet face. _And_ she turned her down ten minutes after she first entered the flat – it's tiny, their flat, and Deanna likes it. It's got walls painted in warm colours and a living room the size of a freaking stamp and she got attached to it morbidly because in the end, even if she's _not_ admitting it, she's terribly nostalgic and she misses her home. She really does.

She huffs, bored, laying on her back on the bed – the TV is on somewhere, just a background noise, and her phone's near, just in case Sammy wants to call. In the end, she calls her – she leaves it on the blanket, speakerphone on.  
«Hello? Dee?» her voice's terribly familiar, low and quiet – she smiles without even noticing it, and her smile's gone after a while, when she remembers that it's been three months since she last saw her.

Not that she's going to tell Sam that she misses her.  
Nope.

«Hey, Sammy. How's school?» asks instead, and only mumbles something if necessary, and lets her talk about a science project, the most interesting English class ever and a thousand other little things, and she forces herself not to think about blue eyes and dark hair and everything that goes with that. She falls asleep without ending the call.

The morning after, in her voice-mail there's a message wishing her goodnight – it makes her smile, even at 6.10 AM.  
Deanna doesn't know how Sam manages to do that and just shrugs one more time, and decides that the answer doesn't matter that much.

 

 

***  


 

Deanna's not good with _people_ – most of the time she flirts nonchalantly and hopes that's enough. She doesn't like talking about herself, spreading pieces of her past all around, wasting them, giving them to people she will never see again. She's kinda like a wild animal at the beginning of every relationship, yeah.

Not that in the school she can even _think_ to trust someone.

However, letting go her obviously lacking social skills, she usually gets pretty well what people expect from her – she knows what they want, how they think she will behave.  
She understands pretty well everybody, except for Castielle, of course.

She seems to have a frustrating, perfect self-control and a permanent stick up her ass – like the majority of ballerinas, actually. And she didn't understand much more, and that's extremely annoying and makes her just a little more interesting. Yep, just _a little_.  
Deanna is pretty sure she never saw her laughing yet, and maybe that's not a bad thing because there's a chance (and honestly more than a chance) she definitely loses her head over her, if it ever happens.

She really tries to change expression in something more cheerful only during the practise of the _pas de deux_ , to which the whole _corps de ballet_ have to attend at least once a week.

Deanna can't quite understand why Castielle seems to have such a hard time every time they work on it – yes, it's horribly cheesy and, _yes_ , Michael's a dick and that's clear even when he's playing the sappiest poor fellow's role besides Romeo Montecchi, but _she_ 's a fantastic dancer and Deanna cannot believe it to be _that_ hard to her. She just has to look relaxed for eight minutes and a half, Jesus.

The plot's simple, a bit silly, she personally hates it – the male character dies and goes to Hell for some unspecified reason, the female protagonist's an angel sent to save him who falls in love with him and his broken soul and _blah-blah_.  
It sounds like a terrible girls' fiction novel, even if she doesn't have that much of a basis for comparison, 'cause the only little girl she knows is Sam and Sam's out of every usual scheme.

Anyway, people don't care too much about plot, if it's nice to look at – and it _is_.

Even though Castielle's a piece of wood in Micheal's hands and she mixes steps and it's all, generally speaking, quite a catastrophe, and Deanna can't understand _why_.  
She tilts her head, puzzled, her legs spread in front of her while she stretches.

 

It gets clearer when, after ten endless minutes of break from the practise to listen madame Milton – incredibly young and incredibly bitchy – yelling at Castielle ( _how is it even possible that you can't_ feel _that pas de deux, Castielle? Michael's such a good partner, and a beautiful boy-_ ) the gentle, quiet, _modest_ Castielle raises her head and hushes the entire ballroom.

«My apologies, madame, if I can not look like I'm completely, _totally_ in love with my partner and his non-existent professionalism, every time he tries to approach me outside classes.» and oh.

 _Oh_.

Castielle doesn't stay there long enough to see madame's face.  
She straightens a little more her shoulders, like it's even possible, and lowers her head again, in attempt to retrieve a respectful attitude, and murmurs «With your permission.» just before she walks away.

No one's paying attention to her, they're all too focused on Michael's expression – therefore, no one notices it when she starts to run.  
No one, except for Deanna.

She barely keeps herself from running after her, her short fingernails scratching her palms, breathing deeply to remember herself she has not the liberty to drop out practise and her dignity and the unique possibility that she has just _being_ there, for a girl. Not even if she's got the most beautiful blue eyes of the whole fucking Creation. Castielle, on the other hand, won't be penalized for that.

That's not fair, but Deanna got used to inequities a long time ago. Simply, there are people luckier than others.

 

 

***

 

 

When classes officially end (forty-five minutes late), though, she cannot pretend she hasn't noticed Castielle's bag, abandoned in a corner. She didn't bother to collect it before she ran away.  
Deanna picks it up just to realize she has no idea where to find her.

Consequently, at lunch – while resentfully watching her salad, 'cause she just wants to send to Hell diet more and more every day – she goes sitting straight in front of the only person she has ever saw actually talking to Castielle. She's called Gabrielle, she thinks, and she's short and vivacious and, considering all the candies she gulps down pretty much all day long, she's got an enviably good shape.

Deanna never actually talked to her before, but she's not really the kind who gets embarrassed.

She drops herself heavily on the other chair at her table, catching an interested look – she puts her hand over the trays, introducing herself, but not apologising for her rude overture.

«Nice to meet you, I'm Deanna Winchester. First year.» Deanna shakes Gabrielle's hand enthusiastically and Gabrielle does the same, then she leaves her hand and takes a fork, starting to eat. _God_ , Deanna hates salad.  
She catches an amused glimpse of the corner of her eye, probably a reaction to her face. She _also_ hates not being able to control her expressions, but she can't help that.

«Nice to meet _you_ , Deanna Winchester.» says Gabrielle, then, like it's all perfectly normal.  
Deanna smiles without even noticing it.

 

Half an hour later, Deanna knows that Gabrielle's not that bad. And, also, she's got a humour too alike hers for she not to like her. When they say goodbye, she offers her Castielle's bag for her to give it back to Castielle – Gabrielle looks at her like she knows things Deanna can't even start to imagine, raising an eyebrow as she absently sucks a licorice whip. She winks at her, then she turns and leaves her just like that, with the blue bag still in her hand, shouting the address from over her shoulder as she walks away.  
«Princeton Boulevard, 92! Today she's at home for sure!»

 

The rumble of the engine breaks the silence so suddenly and violently that her first instinct is to hunch her shoulders and to low the radio.  
She turns into Princeton Boulevard, running along an interminable row of little villas and trees, with sedans and family vans parked in the car parks – Baby looks definitely out of place, all black body and aggressive lines.

It's a calm, well-fixed neighbourhood, for upper-middle-class professionals who don't worry about money anymore. It's a place where she never thought she would have ever been, actually – she grew up five hundred miles away from there, in Bobby's old, familiar, crumbling house in Sioux Falls, and she trained for years on an improvised bar in the courtyard, leaned on two rusty wrecks (after so many years spent like that, now she's got a bad habit of stretching everywhere – fields, dusty floors, laying against walls. It makes her uncomfortable during lessons but comes in handy on Sundays, when she and Lisa move out of their little living room all furnitures for some homemade training). She gets a glimpse of number ninety-two from the road and God, Castielle, judging by the size of the house, must have an entire room for training alone, somewhere.

She swallows down the instinctive distress and the sudden awareness of her inappropriate clothing. She's wearing a tee way too large and half ruined jeans that the butler (whose effective existence becomes more and more a real possibility when she parks in front of the perfectly looked after meadow and follows a path of white gravel) will look at in horror.

Deanna grew working at Bobby's workshop _and_ as handyman for the families of her neighbourhood _and_ as underpaid waitress in a terrible diner to pay a part of the boarding costs of the Academy, and even with the help of a scholarship she can barely afford all of that and, by a miracle, save something for Sammy – Sammy who's fifteen, now, and soon (always too soon) will be at Stanford.

She needs a moment to recollect herself before she actually rings the doorbell, hiding the sudden rush of rage and shame and general discomfort who got her thinking about what kind of looks a family like that could give to her.

In the end she makes it, she takes a deep, deep breath and keeps telling herself that doesn't matter what they're gonna think of her, that she deserves that place as much as every other student and _God, please, not a butler._ She can hear the echo of the doorbell and the light steps that follow the sound, approaching the door.  
And it's not a butler – it's Castielle, indeed.

Deanna blinks in surprise. She didn't expect her, and surely she didn't expect her like this.

Considering her usual house clothing, she always thought that everyone else too, in the exact moment the door shuts behind them, turns into a... scruffy cat, kinda. Normally, when she's at home she's got loosened hair and she wears a ripped tee, and knee-length socks Sammy got her two years ago for Christmas (they're pink, terribly _pink_ , with ballet shoes decorations on the edge – they're awful, but Sam thought it would have been funny to put them in her suitcase and, well, at least they're also quite cozy) and deformed tracksuit trousers. Leggings, if she's in a stylish mood.

Castielle, on the other hand, is flawless as usual. Her hair tightened in a chignon, she's wearing black fuseaux and legwarmers, a tank top and white _pointe_ shoes so freaking _immaculate_ that Deanna wonders if she's got a pair just for showing them off ( _pointe_ shoes never last long, and never last long _clean_ – hers are the perfect example of extreme recycling, half destroyed and bended at the point of excess).

She gulps and raises the hand with the bag as an explanation for her presence, and answers Castielle's interrogative gaze – eyes, eyes, eyes, one day those eyes will be the death of her – whispering some unintelligible words. Just one, actually.  
«Gabrielle.» she says, to let her know she's not a psycho stalker who googled her name and address – _how_ do you do that, by the way?

She already has her mouth open to speak again and explain herself better, and maybe to chat a little and to apologize for the intrusion, when from inside the house she hears someone calling Castielle. The voice sounds impatient and makes her stiffen, pink lips pressed together in a nearly invisible line.

She look briefly behind her shoulder, anxious, and tears off of her hand the bag. Deanna can't say anything, and before she murmurs something the door is half closed between them.  
«Thank you.» and her scared blue eyes are the last thing Deanna can see.  
  
Suddenly, her dysfunctional family don't seem that bad anymore.

 

 

***

 

 

After that, Deanna resigned to the thought she wasted like an idiot her only chance to talk to her and, consequently, she's also – _almost_ – less aware of her presence when she meets Castielle in the hall and no, she doesn't even peer (much) in the changing room.

It'll be over soon.  
It always does, because it hurts too much – nothing will ever happen and she'll forget Castielle as soon as possible, Castielle and those blue eyes of her, 'cause out there's _plenty_ of blue eyed people (and their eyes will never be as blue as Castielle's).

Quite surprisingly, this time Deanna's wrong.  
Castielle approaches her three days later, while she's collecting her stuff in the dressing room, late. As usual.

Practise that day went straight after five hours of massacring lesson, and the other girls have disappeared as soon as possible – she was too tired to hurry up, every single muscle screaming and burning, even those she didn't remember to own.

It's only the two of them, and Deanna has almost an heart attack when she turns around, her bag on her shoulder, and Castielle's simply is there. She crept behind her silent like a fucking cat and _Christ_ , it slips past her lips while she still has her heart in her throat, her free hand on her chest, trying to stop it from collapsing.  
Castielle frowns at her, too intense blue eyes critically staring at her for a while, before she speaks.  
Castielle voice sounds unbelievably hoarse, somewhat... mismatched to the elegance of her features – Deanna can feel her own heartbeat increasing again, for totally different reasons.

«I wanted to offer you my apologises for how I acted on Thursday. Unfortunately, you showed up at quite a bad time.» she sees her fingers clench at the memory, only clue of her agitation despite her blank face, «I wish to thank you again for the bag. Goodbye, Deanna.» and before she can hold her, or answer her, or figure out _how_ exactly she knows her name or react in any other way, Castielle's gone, walking away with the fast pace of someone who's got something important to do.

She cannot call her back.

 

That night she calls Sam – she doesn't say a thing about Castielle and her frankly embarrassing crush, nor about her exaltation for Castielle actually talking to her, and she definitely doesn't smile more than what would be generally acceptable. Seriously, she _doesn't_ and, even if she did, on the phone Sam wouldn't notice it.  
She suspects Sam to just _know_ something is different – she doesn't ask questions, though, and in the end it's okay like that.

Also, and above all, because there's nothing to be happy about – nothing relevant happened, probably Castielle will never ever talk to her again, there's absolutely no reason why she should consider that as a start.

Deanna smiles anyway, and Sam still doesn't ask – Deanna can totally feel a smile in her voice too, when they get off the phone.

 

The problem – if you can call it a problem – becomes more obvious a couple of days later.  
Now that she's aware of her existence, Castielle stares. _A lot_.

She catches her often during the day: while they're warming up at the bar, she makes eye contact in the mirror and keeps it as long as physically possible, until it's too much (too difficult and too intense, like she's asking a million questions all at once) to take, or during lunch, when she involuntarily gets a glimpse of her eyes while she's observing her from the other side of the room, lazily piddling what's in her plate and ignoring Gabrielle, who talks next to her, expressively gesticulating in attempt to catch her attention, or once again (and those are the times when maybe, _maybe_ her breath gets stuck in her throat) while she's dancing, alone, during centre workout, and she's the point Castielle looks at for to not loose her balance after three impossibly fast spins.

Once in a while – really, just every so often – Deanna reciprocates those looks, for a moment or two.  
And once in a while, even more seldom, she smiles.

Castielle never smiles back.  


***

 

Castielle talks to her again only two weeks later, when they've started to adjust in that weird balance of gazes and unsaid things and Deanna had no idea the silence could hide so much noise.

She had no idea one day she would appreciate silence, she never managed to like it – Deanna _loves_ the noise. Noise means Bobby working on a car, now and then raising his head to watch her, an old stereo who plays rock songs and she adapting exercises on them, the bar that trembles when she lays down too heavily, Sam studying in the kitchen and her voice going through the open window, comforting her – the noise is all that she started to dance for, it fills the silence of too many nights spent in roadside motels waiting for dad to come back from work and roadtrips always too long and Sammy that was so small in her arms, silence of dad who one day drops them at Bobby's place and also silence of all the nights she sat near the window and waited, waited, _waited_ biting her lips till they were bleeding, silence of the day she just finished to wait and she went back to bed, and the day after that, when she took the bike and she went straight to Rosie's and politely asked for a job (they gave it to her).

It's for such reason that she's so surprised, when Castielle drops her bag next to hers and sits with her legs crossed, watching her with those blue eyes, her hair perfectly tied. Deanna looks really out of place, compared to her, with her loosened ponytail and the grey tracksuit, pretty much rags against the other girl's outfit.

Castielle observes her while she's stretching, head tilted to the right, curios like she'd never saw – or done – something like that before and Deanna doesn't look away, even if it's so close and particularly intense and it's a little harder than usual to stare back at her. She keeps her chin up, pending.

And Castielle doesn't say anything, she shrugs and starts to stretch in turn, relaxed, like is no big deal that she left her place in the front row to stay with her in the corner.

Deanna doesn't break it – the silence – until madame Milton begins to yell – then she stands up and she goes next to the bar, in front of her, and starts the workout.

She thinks they're going to stay like that – she can almost feel Castielle's breath against her nape, and she's painfully aware of her body (so close), and talking is completely unnecessary.  
Every single time she talks, Deanna destroys everything she has.

When, in the end, Castielle whispers something, undoubtedly it's not what she expected – even if she doesn't know exactly what she expected, so probably that's good as anything else would have been.

«If I were you, I would open a little more the right knee, Deanna.» the adjustment is kind, an offer, and she follows it instinctively, without thinking about it, and loses focus on madame's directions for a moment – _plié_ and _rond de jambe_ , or the other way round, or something like that.

Thanks goodness her hesitation goes unnoticed and she manages to pick up the rhythm before madame Milton checks on their side – other way, she would have probably been sent out of the door like an unruly child.

Next time Castielle speaks, she doesn't even jerk.

 

Adjustments become quickly routine, and they're more useful of all madame Milton's.  
She doesn't know why Castielle's doing that, she's a little scared to ask, honestly. One day, while they're warming up side by side, Deanna stops thinking about it and just goes with it.

«Why are you helping me?» and that's not exactly what she wanted to ask, but Deanna never says what she should say, she never has the right words.

She doesn't look at her face – and still she can feel her eyes (they're blue, so freaking blue, and Deanna sometime thinks she could even drown in Castielle's blues, and it doesn't seem that bad, all considering), and she can easily imagine her while she observes her with her head tilted and her legs spread in front of her – and Castielle answer after a while, enough to make her think she would have not answered at all.

«You're quite different from other people. You're _real_.» and Deanna doesn't know if she should smile at the quite breathtaking declaration or maybe worry about how the other girl can sense her thoughts as she can read her freaking mind.  
She nods and doesn't answer back.

She doesn't tell her that's for the same reason she's letting her come so close.

 

That afternoon she sees Castielle out class for the first time, in the same room.  
She invited her to some extra exercise – Deanna almost burst into laughter, when Castielle asked her for _help._

Castielle – perfect, flawless Castielle – asking _her_ for help.

She didn't tell what she needs help for, but she couldn’t possibly say no – nor she wanted to, actually, even if she hasn't really enough time and she can't afford leaving the work at the diner.

But Castielle's beautiful and when she looks at her with those blue, enormous eyes Deanna can't just say _no_ , even if she knows she's lying, when she tells her that she's doing all this to pay her back for the bag – it's her official excuse, and she's accepting that mostly because she's got one too (she still has to find that, but she'll have one soon).

Castielle insists to practice with her a solo piece from the show – she doesn't quite understand _why_ but she rolls her eyes to the ceiling and doesn't protest when Castielle drags her to the centre. Thank God she remembers something from the choreography.  
As one would expect, it's a catastrophe – at Castielle's side she looks clumsy, crushed by the impossible difficulty of some passages and the inexperience. Not that she thought this would have been successful, with her Billy Elliot like story.

When they stop she's panting, exhausted, while Castielle, who's used to it, isn't even short of breath – she frowns at her without speaking, then she bites her lower lips like she's holding back a sigh and she reaches for a bottle of water in her bag.  
She doesn't expect her to thrown it at her – she catches it at the very last moment, right before it falls on her foot, and she lets out a surprised yelp.

«You've got an enviable flexibility. We can still improve, though.»

Deanna's pretty sure she has to take it as a challenge.

 

 

***  


 

Eventually, she _leaves_ the diner, 'cause their afternoons – evenings, if they're too tangled up with their schedules – become daily. She can't say that it's not a relief, even if now the thought of Sam's college fund is even more frightening and there are nights it won't let her rest, and she really thinks that if this will become too bad she could always leave the Academy and go back to Bobby's place. She's good with engines, after all – it doesn't matter that her heart aches at the mere thought of leaving behind the damn school and the damn ballet, she would do it. For Sam. She'd do it without thinking about it twice.

She ends the routine with an _arabesque en seconde_ , her legs aching because Cas, that crazy lady – Castielle has became Cas, since a week or two, Cas that's short and easy, simple, the only way in which Deanna can make her _simple_ , a little more reachable, a little more comprehensible –, insisted to make her keeping an _attitude_ for three-freakin'-minutes. As she called for it, she hear her voice straight after.

«Your posture is _terrible_ , Deanna.» and she can see her even if she can't _see_ her, sitting legs-crossed on the floor behind her, hands on her knees, unable to still as she involuntarily follows the music.

Deanna stops, ignoring their stereo that keeps going on the soundtrack from the _allegro_ , and turns to glare at her – Cas is sitting exactly like she imagined.  
She walks toward her, tapping her waist with her fingers. She huffs, annoyed.

«You think no one ever told me that, Cas?» she's exhausted, after three hours with her and six of regular class, and her body refuses every activity that doesn't involve her bed and last week episode of Dr. Sexy MD. She has to see it yet, and yes, it's _annoying_.  
Cas knows her well enough to know when it's better let go – when she sits with her, head tilted back, touching the wall, Castielle doesn't say anything.

Deanna's playful, though – she doesn't even remember when was last time she felt like this.  
When she senses Castielle standing she opens an eye, just one, and makes a fake exasperated face when she sees her go to the centre, ready to work on _her_ routine.

Her grimace quickly becomes a smile, it always does – it wouldn't be that weird, if Cas didn't smile back.  
Deanna keeps smiling like nothing happened, as she would have done with anyone else – problem is, Castielle _isn't_ anyone else and after two months of looks and meetings and hours, hours, hours of unrequited smiles, suddenly, there it is. Her first smile.

Deanna lets _her_ smile show her triumph, just a little, but she can't help it – she has earned it. She earned the immediate blush on her cheeks, too, when she winks at her.

The playfulness stays with her for a week, then it's drowned by her problems – and even then, every so often, Cas smiles and the world seems just a little lighter.

 

 

***  


 

«Eat at least some pasta, Cas.» she mumbles something, but when Deanna pushes the plate towards her and glares quietly at her she surrenders. Lunch together is pretty new, actually – as it is to know that Castielle doesn't eat much.

She's not skinny, but Deanna really needs to take care of her – she can't help it, not when she grew up with a permanently hungry Sam to whom leave the last bowl of cereals (once she even managed to sneak out with her for a _real_ hamburger – the sight of the always-perfect Castielle with a sauce-stained skirt is probably one of her favourites in the world).

Cas gives her and exasperated look, but when she keeps her gaze without even blinking – she learned to, with a little training – she grabs her fork and starts to eat without a fuss.

They both jerk when Gabrielle comes in, noisy as usual, even if _that_ 's routine.  
It was new only for the first three times – and that time when Deanna found out that her and Cas are _sisters_ , for God's sake. Then she couldn't fucking guess why Gabs made her go all the way to Princeton Boulevard to bring back Cas' bag, but she doesn't really like to think about it.

When Gabrielle starts gossiping about somebody she doesn't know – as she does most of time, actually – Deanna only nods at the right time, exchanging looks with Cas that Gabs doesn't (or pretends not to) notice.  
It ends always like this – with the two of them making up some undelayable obligation to escape two solid hours of useless school gossip.

 

That afternoon she's dancing, Castielle at the bar, warming up and giving her advice every now and then, when the room's door cracks open – she doesn't care too much and she doesn't stop, letting the other girl at welcoming the guest (it's just a little for revenge, because she knows how much Cas hates strangers, but today she insisted for her to try an impossible _allegro_ and no, she's not going to help her through that).

She freezes on the spot, half way through a _pirouette_ particularly complicated, when she catches a glimpse of the familiar gangly figure at the corner of her eye.

She's on the balls of her feet in a second and she's not sure, but she's must have made some kind of noise, because the girls turns to her at the same time.  
Sammy smiles of her usual bright, huge smile, and she can't quite believe she's there, with her six feet of awkwardness and the too long dark hair and Christ, that's her _sister_. In Kansas.

«Dee.» she says, and she smiles again, and Deanna's not completely sure she's smiling back, but eventually Sam reaches for her and she can't do anything else that open her arms in an invitation.  
She clings to her, almost desperately, she forgets she's like three feet smaller than her and she kinda wants to still be able to put her chin on her head, like when they were children.

She can't, obviously, even if she goes _en pointe_ , so she nudges at her arm instead, and she knows Sam will get it anyway.

 

She lets her go after what seems like an eternity and a half, only to find Castielle watching them, frowning – she may be crazy, but Cas seems freaking _jealous_ and she's a little funny, actually, just a little.

She bites back a burst of laughter, introduces them and grits her teeth even more in order to keep in the laugh when she sees Cas suddenly lighting up (she conveniently ignores her irregular pulse at the thought, at the _hope_ , because it's not important, not anymore, Castielle's becoming so much more than a casual crush – she's becoming her best friend and she doesn't want to lose her like this, she _can't_ ).

«Cas, Sammy, my little sister. Sammy, she's Cas – a classmate. _And_ the _étoile_ of the school, but, you know, that's details.» she can see Castielle blush, giving Sam a tiny smile. Then she goes back at looking intently at the ceiling, embarrassed.  
Deanna drops to the floor and starts to untie the shoes – Sam's watching her, curios. It's been a long time since the last time she has seen her do this, after all.

She laughs, when she hears her sister's yelp of horror at the sight of her feet.

 

Later, she drags them both to the nearest ice-cream parlour. Both of them with the rough manners, because she's the only one capable of loving little guilty pleasures like _ice-cream_ – Cas doesn't willingly eat almost nothing, and Sam's way too obsessed with all that healthy food shit, but she's completely on board with a little break from the diet and she can't say no to chocolate.

Sam tells her like Bobby gave her a train ticket for spring break, packed her suitcase and told her to make Deanna a surprise – Deanna forgot the _existence_ of spring break.

Cas is funny, though – she didn't think one day she could say such a thing, but she's absolutely funny and so _fucking_ cute. She manages to dirt herself like a child with strawberry, and her lips are even more pink than usual and maybe, just _maybe_ , Deanna's gaze stays on them for a little too long and she cleans the corner of her mouth a little too slowly.

Sam notices it, because Sam notices everything.  
«You two have something to tell me?» she asks, and she grins like the little adorable bitch she is, and Cas blushes _so much_ and she stares at her (and her eyes are just so blue and huge and _Deanna, please_ – but please _what)_ and she kicks Sam under the table in order to shush her.

She doesn't say anything for the rest of the day, but when they bring her to the train station and she hugs her again, she really can't help herself.  
She whispers it in her ear, voice low enough for Cas not to hear it – Deanna wishes she didn't hear her too.

«Dee, don't let her go away.»

 

 

***

 

 

From Sam's visit, Castielle has changed.

Not in a particularly evident way, not for the important things – she's still Cas, socially awkward and with her big, real blue eyes and her noisy silence, and there still are looks that last too long and times when she's too close and touches, caresses, when she helps her with a position, that reach unnecessary parts of her body.

Castielle's – finally – got better at the _pas de deux_ – it's been a while, she's got better in general, beside her technique, now, there's something _more._ She's different when she's dancing and when she's talking to her and when she's looking at her.  
Different, not in a good way nor in a bad way – just _different_.

Deanna's not a fool, but she doesn't need to make up expectations that will eventually hurt her really bad, when – _when_ , and not _if_ – they will crumble between her hands.  
She hasn't learned to understand Cas yet – she understood that it's pretty much impossible, that Castielle's a little bit like music. You don't have to understand her, just to _feel_ her, doesn't matter what she's saying but what she's making you feel.

And so she learned to sense when she's calm – even if Cas rarely is, always on the edge – and she learned how to speak to her when at home things get real bad – her father is basically a piece of shit, even if Deanna doesn't know everything, even if she know only fragments of that, well, she has a pretty big experience with horrible fathers – and she knows that Cas never looks at anyone like she looks at her.

She doesn't know the reason behind any of this, she never does.

That afternoon, when she makes it to the training room, she finds her collapsed against the wall – her pulse fastens quickly, she frowns and runs towards her with worry that digs into her fucking chest ( _she's sick what happened someone hurt her what what what_ ).

Cas raises her eyes when she sees her kneeling before her, her bag thrown in a corner.  
She's been crying.

She never saw her crying – she never saw her like this, so _human_ and fragile, her bun loosened and her cheeks red and her hands shaking and her eyes puffy and so, so bright and blue, and she's never been so beautiful.

«What happened? Cas?» she asks her, steadiest voice she can manage, kindly but firmly too, trying to understand – she almost screams, when Cas shakes her head and tries to smile at her. She's not really successful, though.  
Cas jerks off her hold and stands, and Deanna sighs in relief when she sees her stable on her legs. She seems to be okay, at least physically, and that's something less to worry about.

She reaches for the stereo with a new determination, and starts the music for the _pas de deux_.  
Deanna's not actually in the mood for dancing – she wants to _understand_ , for once, but she can see _desperation_ in Castielle's eyes and suddenly she's in front of her again, and she's too close, only inches from her lips, and she's murmuring something that the first time she can't get.

She says it again, like a prayer, just a whisper, and her heart could actually stop, this time, and her hope screams and her blood runs and Deanna wishes she really could say no, because this will end and she will be hurt and she's not so sure she'll make it through )and when she says she's not so sure she means that she couldn't handle it, period. Because Castielle is _Cas_ and to her she's so much more, now, than she could have ever imagined, she's right there, next to Sam, and she can't simply push her away, not anymore).

«Dance with me. Please, Deanna, dance with me.» and she bites her lips, with enough force to make them start bleeding.

She doesn't even need to nod, for Cas to understand it' a _yes_.

 

She ties quickly her shoes, and then there are Cas' cold fingers between her own, while she helps her on her feet, and the _adagio_ that fill the room with his agonizingly sweet melody, and Deanna hates her, just a little, 'cause she wants to smile and she can't.  
She doesn't exactly know what to do or how to do it, she can't remember the choreography and defintely she can't move around Castielle – that's why, at some point, Deanna decides that it doesn't matter, and she stops to think.

Then it''s all quite natural, because Cas seems to get what she wants to do before _she_ does – they must be weird to look at, both of them _en pointe_ , their hands slightly touching.

And eventually Deanna just _does_ it.

She stops Cas halfway through a turn, she smiles at her surprised gaze, and it's just a heartbeat before she's kissing her with all she's got.

 

They stay there, lips against lips and body against body and shared breath, for a very long time, and Deanna lets minutes slide over her and kisses her again and again and again, until they can't breathe, for the sake of all the times she wanted to and couldn't.  
She kisses her until she doesn't feel fear anymore, until she cannot talk, and it's good, because she's not so sure _she_ can.

Thank God, they have silence.

She hopes it's enough, for a while.

 

 

***

 

 

It _is_ enough.  
For a while.

She doesn't say anything for a couple of days, basking in the warm, reassuring feeling of good things – she touches her lips a little too often, and she smiles without a reason and she does all the stupid things that people do when they are in love, and she steals kisses from Castielle all along the day, when she can find her alone, and she laughs (she _laughs_ and it's the most beautiful sound) against her mouth and it's perfect, it's _perfect_. Cas is still different – it shows only when she dances, and Deanna knows it's because now she's doing it for her.

There are thing none of them want to think about, not now – a week later she calls Sam, and she doesn't really _say_ it (say _what_ , then, considering that even her doesn't know what they are) but at the end of the phone call is pretty much sure that Sam draw the right conclusions.

 

 

***

 

 

Things that they don't wanna discuss start showing three weeks after the beginning of their... something – one day that Cas is particularly off and Deanna's too stubborn and yes, she screamed things she didn't think and she regretted it in the moment they left her mouth, but Deanna's an idiot, she really is, and she let her run away.

And now it's 3 A.M. and she's under one of the hundreds of windows of Castielle's house and hopes that it's her, and keeps calling her because she has been under the rain for half an hour and she's soaked and she's cold (and she's _not_ cold just because of the water).

Eventually Castielle looks out the window – it was the right one, thank God – and even if she can tell from her face that she would like leave her there, she makes her reach the back-door and opens it for her, she guides her toward her bedroom and gives her a towel to dry her hair and some clothes for changing before she begins to explain herself.

But when she strips down – and she's not really thinking, she's cold and the change is soft and smells like Cas – she doesn't have the time to put on the other clothes before Castielle is fucking _everywhere_.

She's on her lips, she's the warm body on hers, her hands caressing her all over and making her shudder and she wants to stop her, she really wants to because this doesn't have to be now, not like this, but Deanna's never been great at talking and this is just so good.  
She only wants to hold her and kiss her and protect her and _God, Cas, do it again_.

Castielle's on her lap, dark hair loosened on her back, in her eyes a look she doesn't recognize – she reaches down to kiss her with a violence she never had before, and when she tries to grab her waist her hands are like steel around her wrists, keeping them above her head.

She moans, tilting her head back when Cas kisses under her chin – and then lower, between her breasts, on her stomach, and up again, and Deanna doesn't know what they're doing, she only knows that she could easily go mad or die, here and now, with Castielle's lips on her skin and her tender weight on her thighs, and she wouldn't fucking mind.  
She jerks a little when she senses Castielle nuzzle in the crook of her neck and then her teeth bite lightly down there, and Cas is whispering, panting, and there's a tear on her skin, now, and she cannot move even if she wants to.

«It was so hard, Deanna.» another bite, more angry this time, enough to almost hurt her, right behind her ear, «Admit it.» and she's reaching down again, and Deanna can hardly breathe, and suddenly the hold on her wrists loosens a bit and Castielle rests her forehead right on her heart.

«I'm sorry.» a sigh, a light kiss where she left her teeth mark before, her back that tenses up under her hands, «I'm sorry.» and she's raising quickly, she doesn't care about the goosebumps on her skin, and Cas is not crying anymore, not really, she's quivering and Deanna can't do much more than keeping her in her lap. She strokes her hair, gently, and she starts to hum without thinking, even if she can't sing ( _and any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders –_ and she never noticed it, not really, but it can be their song, pain and music and someone who must be protected).

They stay like that fro almost the whole night.

And somehow all that they never said comes out – they're not long speeches, nothing complicated. A question or two, every so often, fragmented phrases through their teeth and the fear of saying something that's too much, something the other can't handle, and the relief when she does.

They don't say _everything_ , of course – Deanna simply _can't_ tell her everything, and she's pretty sure Cas can't either, not in only one night and not in this one, but they have time for the details.

They'll have time.

 

She tells her about memories, parts of who she was before and who she is now – she tells her about her father, about the years on the road, about the times she thought she couldn't make it, about Sam (she talks a lot about Sam, Sam who has been all her life for so long) and Cas gets even what she can't say.

( _He brought us all around USA, me and Sam, until I was nine._

_He was never there._

_There were nights I believed I was never going to wash the smell of the motel from my hair._

_Sometimes Sammy couldn't stop crying, and I spent hours lulling her and cradling her, until my arms hurt._

_I don't think of him as my father anymore – there's Bobby, now. One day John left us at his house and never came back and I honestly think it was the best day of my life._

_I started dance lessons practically by mistake. Bobby thought I needed to attend a more girly environment than the workshop, make some friend of my age – he was wrong. I hated all of my classmates. But I liked how it made me feel. Dancing.  
I was free._

_I remember my first time_ en pointe _. I actually risked a pretty serious injury, it was too soon – I never attended lesson very regularly and I was still a child, my teacher was a jerk._

 _I think Bobby still has my bar, in the courtyard – I went there everyday, even when it was raining, even when it was too cold. It was the only place where I could think._ ).

 

It's a gift they make to each other.  
Castielle's voice so low she can hardly hear her, she's rapid, nervous, she stops often.

( _My mother was a ballerina too. She stopped dancing when Gabrielle was born – we have_ _an age gap of seven years_ _and when I started she was already been attending lessons for eight years._

 _I don't even know anymore how many times she sneaked into my room at night, the first times I was working_ en pointe _– we had a terrible teacher, I can't remember her name. She was a witch._

_There were nights I couldn't climb the stairs, because my legs hurt so much._

_Gabs helped me, careful not to let Mother see her, and then she stayed in bed with me and she bandaged my feet if they were bleeding, she massaged my aching muscles._

There's only silence, for a while.

_I think my mother suspects something, about me- us. She wouldn't be happy- I don't think she could even acknowledge that. I may not be her daughter anymore, if she finds out something like this._

Silence again, for even longer, and then her breaking voice.

_I wouldn't mind._

_When I joined the Academy, for a while, I dated Michael. It's the reason he won't le me alone, I think – I hated him-  
And once- once he went too far._

Deanna sees her making a ball of her fist, taking a breath deeper than the others, broken – fear slips into her throat like a worm, slimy.

_Cas?_

She doesn't answer.

_He did hurt you?_

She doesn't _answer_.

And Deanna knows next time she'll see Michael Smith she will spit in his face).

She tightens her grip, and she feels just so _lucky_ , when Cas doesn't push her away – when she falls asleep like this, a hand against her arm and her head on her shoulder, she knows Castielle trusts her too.

 

 

***

 

 

She has another proof of that the first time Cas let things just _happen_.  
It's been two months from that night, and everything is more or less back to normal.

It's pretty late night, and they're snuggling on her bed, enjoying the privacy of one of the rare times Lisa's out with some dandy she found somewhere (for a while, when he stayed half an hour talking with her in the sitting room, they tried to recognize his voice to find out if he is someone from the Academy, but they gave up quickly).

Deanna's kissing her lazily, her nude limbs tangled with hers, because Deanna loves kissing her – the feeling of her loosened hair on her wrists because she _always_ ruins her chignon or unties her ponytail or steals her bands ( _you're beautiful like this, Cas – and you have no idea how long I've waited to see you with your hair down_ ), and Castielle's lips are pink and soft and they swollen very quickly, and her skin is white like a new paper and sometimes Deanna likes to leave some marks. Not many, anyway.

She doesn't expect it, when Cas suddenly snaps and she's on top of her, and she's keeping her down – she looks at her, raising an eyebrow, half blinded by the light of their abat-jour.  
Cas licks her lips and, well. _Well_.

She's definitely not the type who refuses some kind of impetus – even if Castielle never did it again from that time in her room, even if from then she seemed again just the usual, calm, weird, timid Cas.

She kisses her with enough force to steal her breath.  
When she reaches down on her neck, and then keeps going, and her fucking tongue is _torturing_ her, Deanna's panting. And thank God she was a _prude_.

She tugs blindly at her shirt, until Cas doesn't get it off – now her hair is even more ruffled and, Jesus Christ, she didn't realize that under the tee there was nothing. She can't help it, and she smiles when Cas blushes under her steady gaze, like a scared tiny bird.

She's not letting her in charge, anyway, not that night – not if she's reading this right. This night is for her.

Careful not to hurt her, quickly, she brings her legs near her body, and then she throws herself on her, playful, and she makes her lie down. Very likely, she'll never forget Castielle's gaze, when she touches lightly a breast, questioning (always, always – it's not the first time they end like this, but it's definitely the first time Cas seems to want things just go on) – she'll never forget the blue in her eyes becoming darker, the flash of hesitation, the steadiness in her fingers around her wrists when she tries to distance herself.

The way she swallows before she nods.

 

She gives her a little smile, before she ducks her head to playfully bite at her neck – she changes the light grip of her teeth in a kiss, and she lays besides her.

She looks at her while she's tracing lightly the pale skin of her tummy with her fingertips – Castielle throws her head back and arches in her touch deliciously.

She raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised because, God, if this is her reaction _now_ she's looking forward to see her in half an hour.  
She smiles again, and pushes gently against her waist, making her turn on her stomach, limbs twisted between the sheets.

Cas lets her maneuver her like a doll, tensed up with anticipation.

She sits legs-crossed between _her_ legs, pushing, and God bless her unnatural flexibility – despite her cold muscles, when she's done Cas is almost in split on the bed and she's comfortable too, leaning on her back, careful not to crush her.

She keeps herself on with an hand while with the other one she caresses her sternum, her lower back, and when she goes down to her femininity with gust a feather like touch Castielle _melts_ like a freaking jellyfish and _oh, this is going to be so much fun_.

 

«Deanna!» the grip on her hair tightens, slim fingers tugging – it's the first time Cas lets out something comprehensible, from the moment she went over foreplay.

She smiles, not that she can do much more, and she raises her gaze to look at her – she almost regrets it, because the sight makes a sudden flash of heat flaring in her tummy.  
Castielle's on her back again, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide, when she presses just a little bit more on her clit – and that's all she needs.

Cas untangles a hand from her hair and grips the sheets, her knuckles white and a muffled scream that resonates in the room. She found out that Castielle's extremely vocal, which is surprising, considering how quiet she usually is, and her new life goal, now, is to make her _actually_ scream, one day or another.

She holds her, after, peppering her stomach with tiny kisses, up to her ear – in the end, she playfully nips at her lower lip, smiling when she does.  
She's asleep even before she pulls away.

She keeps herself from chuckling while she climbs down the bed, gently, trying not to disturb her – she expected that, actually. You don't have your first orgasm with Deanna Winchester without being at least a little overwhelmed, thank you very much.

She grimaces when she walks toward the bathroom, stoically ignoring the _situation_ down there – Lisa's still out, thank to God. She's not sure that Cas wants people from the Academy to know about them. She closes the door, getting undressed – not that there are so many clothes left – quickly.

She looks almost longing while she glances at the huge, absolutely unnecessary bath tub that the former owner decided to leave there, even if it doesn't match – really, it doesn't – with the rest of the furniture. They never complained, for sure – _but_ she hasn't got the time, tonight. One day Cas has to try it with her, though.

She gets under the shower, the pressure fantastic and the lukewarm water – she really can't get through a cold one tonight – to try to calm down. Eventually, she thinks again about Cas' face at the end and, well, she's not gonna wake up tonight. And she damn _deserves_ a prize.

Deanna shrugs to herself, smiling while she turns the water warmer.

 

 

***

 

 

The morning after, she wakes up to the smell of coffee and an empty bed – she reaches at the other side of the mattress with a hand, expecting to find dark, soft hair, but there's no one.

She gets up while her phone starts vibrating, the first notes of _Ramble on_ playing.  
Lisa didn't get home the night before, so she's not her making breakfast. She smiles a little, yeah, but no one can see her, so it's okay, maybe she doesn't seem _that_ dumbly cheesy, smiling at the air.

She walks in the little kitchen yawning, shivering at the cold tiles under her feet – she smiles again, when she sees Cas waiting near the counter, frowning at the coffee pot. She must have rummaged in her drawers, because she's wearing flannel pyjamas pants that she's _surely_ didn't have on the night before – quite oddly, it doesn't annoy her, even with all the years she checked over and over again her and Sam's bag to be sure everything was still there after the long breaks at the motels.

She approaches her, silent, circling her waist from behind and nuzzling in the crook of her neck – Castielle turns her head, kissing her.

«You shouldn't have let me sleep, last night.» she whispers, sweetly, and she laughs lightly against her skin because she's pretty sure _nothing_ could have stopped her from falling asleep, even if normally she has some trouble. She can almost _feel_ her blushing, despite the fact she cannot see her face.

«You can make it up to me tonight.» she says, and she laughs again.

 

( _I_ _may_ _even get used to waking up like this, you know_ , she thinks, but _this_... she's not gonna say it.  
She doesn't have to, when Cas turns in her arms to kiss her properly, like she _already_ does it every day).

 

 

***  


 

The first time Deanna thinks she's gonna say it, they're both in the said bath tub.

She's hugging her, her chin on Cas' shoulder, who has her hair gathered up in a bun, some rebellious lock that tickles her jaw – she's slippery of soap in her arms, her right leg up in front of them both while she stares at her foot with critical eyes.

Castielle's beautiful, but _that_ really isn't a show – the feet of a ballerina never are. She lifts a leg too, and some water falls on the tiles.  
There's no game.

Castielle's worse. In every way. It was expected, considering the impossible, tiring-to-death hours of training she attends daily.

She chuckles when she hears her unhappy moan, even if she knows that she's actually proud of every single cut and blister and callus. They hurt and they're a proof of what she had to do to get where she is, and Deanna knows it.  
She kisses her neck, gently, then she caresses her thigh to make her shift in a more comfortable position – Cas does with another little huff that sounds so sad. And so fake.  
And for a second, it's really just a second, Deanna can't help herself.

_You know, I'm still gonna love you, even with those feet._

And it sounds _perfect_ , so easy, and she has it on her lips before she even notices it, and she has to bite her own tongue to stop herself from saying it.  
She doesn't know why – or maybe she does, even if she doesn't want to admit it.

It scares her, to know she could do anything for someone who's not Sam.

 

That night Lisa's at home, so Cas doesn't stay – she has a last minute private session with madame Milton, too, and Deanna can swear that she feels _despair_ in her goodbye kiss.  
That afternoon realization left her restless for the rest of the day – Castielle noticed it but she didn't say anything, she just cuddled her even more than usual.

So she does what she always does when she loses herself in irrational thoughts – she calls Sam.  
She answers it at the third ring, in the background the familiar sound of Bobby muttering while watching some football match.

«Hey, Sammy.» she says, and for a while she listens to her talking about school and how Bobby's trying to teach her something about cars and she goes on and on about this cute James Moore (next time she's back at Sioux Falls, the kid must expect a visit and a talk).  
She distracts her, for a while. Then everything is back in her mind again and she doesn't think too much, and when Sam's quiet for a moment she says it. Period.

«I think I love her, Sammy.» and the problem is that she doesn't _think_ she loves her, and she doesn't even let Sam answer before she speaks again. «I love her.» and Sam, at the other end of the phone, laughs.  
«Y'know, Dee, I'm just really happy I didn't have to spend _years_ trying to maKe you see it.» and she ends the call like it's nothing. Deanna stares at the screen for fifteen minutes at least, shocked.

Then she shakes her head and she gets under the covers, and she decides she doesn't want to know what she did to deserve a sister like Sam.

 

 

***

 

 

Week after week, the date of the show is closer and the obvious consequence is that Castielle doesn't almost have time to breath, drowning in additional training hours that go to fill every minute of her spare time. Sometimes she can sneak in her class to meet her or she finds her outside classes, and those are her only relief valve – she talks and talks and talks, she gets rid of all the frustration and the nervousness and the worries and the pain, because she's _always_ aching, somewhere, and Deanna most of the time just holds her, snuggled beside her while she rests or tells her something or simply enjoys her company.

Other times, instead, Cas needs to _feel_ her – the obvious consequence of _this_ is that she ambushes her every now and then, not that she minds. At all. Castielle learns really, really fast, and Lisa understood that there are nights hen she just has to leave and spend some time with her brand new boyfriend, if she wants to sleep.

She likes when she can surprise her with her hair still damp from the shower, or when she's trying to sleep, warm and sated under the cover, and Cas is reading in the living room or wandering like a soul in torment, sleepless (until she calls her with a low, muffled moan, _Cas, I swear, if you don't come to bed_ now _I'm going to fucking hit you_ ), or again when she stretches around (she recalls with particular fondness that time she surprised her leaning against the wall, her forehead pressed against her lifted leg – there were her hands around her waist and, after a moment, a light thud and her hair tickling her inner thigh, and Cas didn't let her change position, never, even when thinking and breathing became quite hard tasks and her instinct was _screaming_ for her to tug her hair and _CasCasCasplease_ ).

She knows there's also the problem with her mother, apart from the anxiety – maybe three weeks ago, Castielle's rang the doorbell at 2 AM, her eyes a little puffy and a bag at her feet. She asked for a place only for a couple of days – Deanna decided she had to stay (she talked with Lisa, who has been incredibly comprehensive and shrugged and told that, until she pays rent and doesn't steal her room, she could stay for as long as she wanted).

She didn't tell her clearly, but she could understand something putting together half phrases whispered in her pillow, and apparently, during a particularly violent fight, she just... lost it.

She told her everything, and her mother showed her the door – Gabs came in the next day, bringing three more suitcases, filled with whatever was left in the house (two were full of books, for which they really don't have room and that, consequently, are still in their bags. Every so often Cas picks one and leaves it in the strangest point of the house for a couple of days, before being replaced from another).

It's for all these reasons she doesn't take offence when Cas snaps at her – first times she did, she overreacted because it's just the way she is and she can't change it, ans she got out of the room, angry. It never lasted 'til the morning after.

In the middle of the night, the door of their bedroom would open, and her light steps would approach the bed, and she would fake sleep even if Cas perfectly knew that she was awake.

Cas never said she was sorry, but she sat beside her and caressed her face, tentative. And then she opened her eyes to meet the other girl's blue, limitless gaze – Cas has the world in her eyes, or maybe it's just her that can see it there – and made room for her under the cover, grumbling.

 

 

***

  


 

Sometimes, Deanna's afraid of what is going to happen once Cas leaves.

She knows that Cas _has_ to leave, because there is no way that after they have seen her dancing, the examiners from the Royal Academy would leave her here, and every time she thinks about it she gets almost sick and she knows – she _knows_ – that she's being selfish, because Castielle's spent her entire life training for this ( _suffering_ for this) and she has no right to ask her to give up something like that.

But, also, she can't follow her in New York and leave herself the school, and she doesn't know how a long-distance relationship could ever work, with the two of them, how it can fit in between their messy lives and their too different schedules.

It's a constant, draining, that grows and grows in her mind the nearer they get to the _première_ – Cas must know that something's wrong, and she's quite sure she even knows what it is, but they don't talk about it. Castielle holds her every night like she's the most precious thing in Creation, their legs so tangled that they can't really move.

Deanna's constantly aching for what they are and the way their time is inexorably passing, and those three words are more and more often just on the tip of her tongue, trying to slip out, ( _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou please don't go I love you_ ), like saying it could change the situation – it won't, so she swallows it all down and buries it deep inside herself.

Castielle must know it, but she only tightens her grip on her waist.

They still don't need words to understand each other.

 

 

***

  


 

Eventually, they make it to the Big Day.

Deanna can almost _physically_ sense the continuous quivering running inside the theatre, excited footsteps in the corridors, the public coming in, the waves of murmurs behind the scenes.  
Not that that matters, right now.

«Come on, Cas. It's okay.» she whispers it for no one, careful not to touch the locks of perfectly styled, curled hair and calmly rubbing her back (wide circular movements, like she did with Sam when she was sick) while she's gagging and shaking. From where she is, it seems like Cas coughing her fucking lungs out, honestly. She's not actually throwing up, and the acid smell of bile is filling the tiny bathroom of the dressing room, and breathing is becoming hard – Castielle's shivering in her arms while raising her head from the toilet seat. She hands her a piece of toilet paper, so she doesn't instinctively wipe her face with the back of her hand.

She can't risk getting the costume dirty.  
It's almost a masterpiece, in her opinion, white and feathered, with two long ribbons of _tulle_ on her shoulders that she's afraid will rip every time she moves – the skirts is too long and makes her clumsy, while she turns Cas to make her face her, letting her nuzzle in the crook of her neck.

Probably someone's looking for her, they're going to start in twenty and the _étoile_ should be out there, stretching and obsessively studying the choreography. Surely, she's not supposed to be hiding with her in that tiny, surprisingly clean bathroom, on her knees and puking because of her nerves.

She can feel an hysterical laughter in her throat, but she swallows it – Castielle's rubbing her face against her skin, kissing her lightly. She's holding on for dear life, her grip so tight on her arm she will probably leave a bruise (Deanna doesn't mind).  
She moves back a little, enough to make her see her face – when she doesn't look her in the eyes, still coughing a bit, she softly lifts her chin up to force her to look.

«It will be _great_.» she shakes her head, but she shushes her, she doesn't let her speak. She means it – she always does, and Cas knows it. «You'll be so good on that stage, that the examiners won't even believe how lucky they are, and they'll take you with them to NY with the first flight, leaving here Michael, clouded by your sparkling success.» the last part comes in a dreaming tone that would make her laugh, every other day – it's for stopping her to think about her inevitable absence in that perfect plan, and she doesn't quite give her a laugh. Just a smile, little and crooked, but it's always much more than what she had expected.

She reaches a lock and push it back in the chignon, smiling at her – it's the realest smile she can manage right now, with her stomach tied in knots, knowing that it's the last time she gets to see her like this, the _last time_ , then she'll leave and it will be the end of them, and she won't tell her that she loves her because sometimes Deanna it's just _that_ stupid (and maybe it's just because she always knew this couldn't last forever, and tell her that would make things so much more painful than they are).

Eventually Castielle _does_ look at her ( _for the last time, it's the last time_ ) and her eyes have never been so blue or so big or so afraid – she holds her with desperation and she can't tear her eyes off her face, like she's seeing her future there, and Deanna speaks even if she didn't mean to, words scrambling out of her mouth, so quickly she almost slurs, but there's no time, _no time at all_ , and she realized just now that Lawrence and the ballet and her imaginary career don't mean _anything_ , they can all go to Hell, if Cas isn't there.

«I'll come with you.» she says, and she knows it's true even before she finishes the sentence, she knows that she could easily drop all of it tomorrow, even _now_ – the Academy and her sacrifices and everything else, because dancing is not the only thing she loves (it's not like for Castielle – the ballet is not her whole world, it's not like keeping her from breathing every time she can't dance, and she _can_ do this because she always does, she steps aside for someone else, and Cas _deserves_ it and maybe she deserves some happiness too) «I'll find a job somewhere, as a mechanic or a waitress or _something_. I need you, Cas.» and she _means_ it.

«I can't ask you this.» Castielle whispers, her expression devastated like she's going to say goodbye, and she can't let her. She wants to shake her and scream and kiss her until they both can't breathe, every day of her life, because she's so tired of letting go every chance she has to be happy.

She doesn't do any of this, though – they can even think the world has stopped, but it didn't. They hear someone knocking at the door, asking for Cas – Deanna rolls her eyes and huffs, exasperate. They get on their feet, she opens the door while Cas quickly brushes her teeth, and the errand boy runs away to report that the _étoile_ is on her way.

Before they get out, she reaches delicately for one of the ribbons, her mouth gently brushing Castielle's ear.

«You're not asking me to do it, and you have no say over it.» she whispers, because Cas _has_ to know (she has to know it's not short-lived madness, that she's not doing it just for her – it's for both of them, and she'll never blame her for her decisions, never for this one), and then Cas' fingers find hers and she squeezes her hand, just once, before taking a deep breath and walking towards the stage, and she knows that Cas understood.

She always does, when it's about them.

 

 

***

 

 

Deanna loves the feeling of hundreds of eyes on her, bright lights to help the creation of that particular magic spell – she loves it even if she's just an anonymous face of the _corps de ballet,_ she loves it and she's ready to give It up now, in this very moment, for the woman who, tonight, is all but anonymous.

Castielle _shines_ , just as it should be.

The whiteness of her costume is in contrast with her dark hair, the fake feathers that reflect the warm light which changes slightly from scene to scene while she dances like she never saw her do, with inevitable tragedy that clenches her chest.

She's never been more beautiful, and this makes her even more resolute – she would do anything, to see her like this again. Sparkling and radiant and so, so _happy_ (despite her pain and worry and all they've been through just an hour ago, despite the fear – she's _happy_ ).

It's a different shade of happiness from the one she shows when she's with her – because yes, maybe it took a while, but eventually Deanna understood that Cas really _is_ happy with her, even if she never believed it possible –, it's pure, lively joy that makes her spark with breath-taking beauty.

And it's a moment, really, just a second during the _pas de deux_ in which Cas turns when she shouldn't and looks at her, looks at her like she does every night, and Deanna knows that it's for her that she's dancing, again.

 

In the moment Cas bows, the audience's clapping so much they can't hear their own thoughts.  
Deanna doesn't think a second about it – she doesn't think about protocol, about the public, she doesn't think about what will happen after that. She doesn't think, period.

Cas turns to walk behind the scenes, and she's already out of the organized rank of the _corps de ballet_ and running towards her, pushing away Michael, who's still holding her arm.

And then she's kissing her.  
Just like that.

On stage, her hands tugging at her perfectly tied hair, trying to loose the bun and laughing on her lips, when she opens her eyes and finds hers wide open too, her surprised, affectionate look.

When she finally kisses back, she clings to her like a drowning woman.  
They both ignore the mortified whispers from the audience and eventually they just stay there, just breathing, their foreheads pressed together – they could be alone, for what she cares.

Deanna doesn't say it, not now, especially not _now_ – she doesn't say it, but she her mouth tastes like Cas, and her eyes are probably fucking twinkling, right now, and then Castielle holds her hand and she turns her to bow again with her, laughing when people start clapping again.

She doesn't say it, but Castielle _knows –_ she sees it in her eyes, that she knows it, that she doesn't have to say it to make it true.

After all, they'll always have the silence.

 

 

***

 

 

**One month later**

She can do it.  
Yes, she _can_.

Deanna takes a deep breath, spasmodically holding at the armrest – her first instinct is to look out of the window, but then she remembers _where_ she is and hastily looks away.

 _Come on, Deanna_.

It's just a three hours flight, it won't take, like, _forever_ – she survived worse.  
Maybe.

Her _second_ instinctive reaction is to pull out her phone to search in the recent calls Cas' number – and _then_ she remembers that she can't call anyone, unless she doesn't want the fucking thing to crash. And she really doesn't.

She groans, catching a confused gaze from the middle aged lady sitting next to her – lays her head back against the sit, she closes her eyes, and she tries to focus on Castielle alone. Castielle who waits at the airport ('cause they're going to land at the airport), Castielle doing a slow spin for her, showing her that old trench she found in a little garage sale two weeks ago, Castielle who – eventually – kisses her, Castielle who simply looks at her and smiles.

Suddenly, three hours in that infernal box don't seem such a long time anymore.

 

When she finally, _finally_ can touch solid ground again, Deanna's this close to kneel down to kiss the consumed marble of freaking John F. Kennedy International Airport.

She doesn't just because she's too busy checking the crowd for Cas' dark hair, on her toes in attempt to see something – she huffs, breathless and surprised, when something hits her from behind and almost has her falling on the dirty floor.  
_Something_ is a someone, she finds out when she turns around – and _someone_ is actually Cas.

Cas who kisses her just like she imagined, smiling on her lips when she slides her fingers through her hair, and she has to get her suitcase but that's becoming less and less relevant even on her to-do list, honestly.

Deanna doesn't even have the strength to stop herself from touching her – she stays there like this, her forehead pressed against Cas', breathing heavily and letting go at every breath a little piece of the nostalgia that tortured her during the month they were being apart.

  
She looks at her attentively, in attempt to collect all the new little details that she missed – she's not really different, actually. She's a bit more... _sturdy_ , and the dark circles under her eyes are more pronounced, but apart from that she's always Cas.

Her Cas.

The same to whom she promised to adopt two cats, the same who still keeps her books in suitcases because even when she moves there's not enough space for a bookshelf, the same who still dances with her when they're both in the mood to do that just for fun.

The same Cas to whom she gave the keys of her flat in Kansas and who, now, is sliding those of their home in New York into her pocket.

Deanna kisses her again, just because she can do that.  
Just because she will be able to do that for a long, long time – she'll make sure she will.

She smiles.

And, for the first time, she believes to actually understand what being happy means.

 

 


End file.
